


What Dreams May Come

by FayJay



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M, episode coda
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-06-02
Updated: 2009-06-02
Packaged: 2017-10-02 09:59:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,810
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5101
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FayJay/pseuds/FayJay
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After the Season 4 Finale, the Winchesters are on the run from the forces of Heaven and Hell. And then Castiel - or at least, his vessel - turns up on their doorstep, battered and bloody and in need of help.</p>
            </blockquote>





	What Dreams May Come

Dean is already on his feet and reaching for the door before he hears the first knock, and that, right there, ought to tell him something. But he won't think about it until much later, and by then he'll already know everything he needs to know.

At first he thinks it's Cas – understandable, though, right? It sure looks like Cas. He's startled by the rush of pure relief that floods him when he sees the familiar shape hunched up on the threshold of the ramshackle little house they've broken into, looking battered and bloody but blessedly alive. But then he meets the blue eyes, and a thousand little clues of posture and facial expression and the precise _way_ in which the dark hair is disheveled all clamour to tell him that, no, _this_ is not the angel who pulled him out of Hell. This is just some human guy who looks like him. Dean's heart clenches painfully in his chest, hearing Castiel's last words again in the back of his mind. (But not his _last_ words, surely? Surely not his _last_ last words?)

“Where the hell is Cas?” Dean asks, teeth gritted, and Jimmy Novak just blinks at him. There's soot and blood streaking his face, and his tattered overcoat sparkles with shards of shattered glass. Splashes of scarlet are scattered across the surface of his shirt and the pale fabric of his coat like the petals of poppies, incongruously bright. His eyes look bruised, his face even paler than usual. He looks like shit, not to put too fine a point on it, and if Dean were a nicer person he'd have the grace to feel bad for the guy. Hell, in a few minutes' time he's going to feel bad for the guy – but right now all he can think about, with a dull sort of horror, is that it's not Cas.

He told Castiel that this was worth dying for, and the fucker actually went ahead and _died_ for him. An angel. An angel died for _him_, on his say-so. And it didn't even _matter_, because Dean screwed it all up anyway. He didn't get there in time. He didn't save the damn day, and Lucifer is out there doing whatever it is that he's doing (which surely doesn't involve hugging puppies or finding a cure for cancer), and the only angel worth a damn went and threw himself between Dean and all the crazy, fucked-up forces of Heaven.

For _nothing_.

“Dean?” says Jimmy Novak, his voice as tattered as his overcoat, a plaintive rasp that almost hurts to hear. And Dean knows then, in his gut, although he's not about to admit it yet: Castiel is dead. Because that's what happens to people who believe in Dean Winchester. That's what happens to people dumb enough to put Dean on a pedestal. Damn it.

Dean's going to puke. He's actually going to puke on Jimmy Novak's shoes.

But then Jimmy sways on his feet, and Dean realises that the poor slob is on the brink of passing out just before he actually does so, and Dean forgets about hurling and lunges forward, and finds himself with an awkward armful of battered tax accountant, or whatever the hell Jimmy might actually be when he's not just a meatsuit for an angel.

“Shit,” says Dean, with feeling, clutching the limp body and glancing over his shoulder. “Sam? You give me a hand here?”

* * * 

It's difficult to remember that this isn't Cas, as the body hits the bed and just sprawls there. But on the other hand, Dean has never imagined taking these kinds of liberties with Castiel. He peels off the torn overcoat, careful of the treacherous shards of glass, and bundles it over into a corner, and chews his bottom lip as he takes in the spreading stain at Jimmy's side. It sure doesn't look like Castiel's healing mojo is switched on right now, and Dean's trying hard not to think about just why that might be.

He glances over at Sam. “What d'you think?” he says, nodding at Jimmy Novak in a way that's supposed to mean something like: “We going to get smited if we undress an angel?” Because that's an easier question than: “Shit – is Cas _dead_?” But Sam just looks at him, with that lost, stricken, heart-broken expression that he's been wearing ever since Dean arrived (too late!) at the convent, and Dean thinks that maybe his nod wasn't as clear and eloquent as he'd hoped. So he sighs, and then digs out their medical kit, and starts unbuttoning Jimmy's shirt.

Jimmy's shirt. Not Castiel's. Because Castiel, annoying, two-faced, chickenshit spaceman that he was, would never have appeared like this in front of Dean. Would never have been _helpless_ like this. Dean's kind of shocked at how Castiel's body - _Jimmy's _ body – is so small, and human, and breakable under his hands. So pitiable and ridiculous, with its mouth falling slackly open, its limbs loose and pliable. There's dirt under his fingernails, and Dean can smell stale sweat and the sweet metallic tang of congealing blood; there's none of the crisp scent of ozone that he associates with the angel, none of the prickle of static electricity or the low buzz of some note outside the range of human hearing that makes his teeth ache and his very bones vibrate. Nothing otherworldly or angelic.

This isn't Castiel.

Sam helps him gingerly pull off the shirt, mindful of the glittering crumbs of glass, and Dean scans the pasty tax accountant body, feeling oddly embarrassed as his eyes skim over the pale pink nipples and the smooth planes of Jimmy Novak's chest, and then come to rest on the vicious gash in his side where some kind of blade had sliced deep into Jimmy's body. Knife wounds are a bitch – but he was able to make his way to their motel room somehow, and it doesn't look too deep, or there'd be a hell of a lot more blood, so it can't have fucked up any of his organs too badly, at least. Probably. There's a moment there where Dean considers taking the guy to the hospital, but it's not like he's exactly a novice at patching up this kind of thing. And they're in hiding. Not that this seems to have worked very well against Castiel.

Against Jimmy.

He sighs, and accepts a handful of antiseptic wipes from Sam, and starts swiping one over Jimmy Novak's skin, cleaning it up before he starts stitching. Jimmy isn't fat or anything, but, Jesus, the guy is no hunter. He's kind of lean, but he doesn't have the sort of muscles Dean associates with grown men – with hunters. With Dad, and Sammy, and himself. This feels almost like patching up a kid, actually – like patching up Sam, when he was younger. There's something embarrassingly innocent about this civilian's body, something that gives Dean a window into a world of desk jobs and water coolers and home cooking. It twists something in his guts, and he feels guilty all over again, but for a whole new reason. Poor slob. And to think that the angel he'd allowed to ride around inside his skin was actually helping to bring on the fucking apocalypse! Man, that's got to sting. If Dean feels like the angel played him, how much worse must Jimmy Novak be feeling right now?

There are dozens of little cuts where glass has exploded through fabric and flesh and sliced through Jimmy's skin, and Dean is careful to clean them all. As he does so he eyes the ugly bruises blossom yellow and purple over Jimmy's ribcage and on his arms. There's something that Dean realises, after a little exploratory tugging at the waistband of the guy's pants, is a handprint on one of his hips – not burned into the skin, like Castiel's own mark upon Dean's arm, but rather a bruise that shows where some appallingly strong hand clutched onto him hard enough to leave fingerprints. Remembering the sensation of punching Castiel in the face, the flesh and bones unyielding as iron, Dean can only shudder at the thought of the kind of power that could mark Castiel like this.

(“I'll hold them off,” Cas said. “I'll hold them _all _off.” And he did, the stubborn idiot. Just – for nothing. All for nothing.)

Dean blinks hard. His eyes are stinging, which is _stupid_, and pointless, and he isn't a fucking _girl_. Castiel was a soldier, and an adult – hell, he was thousands of years old, at least – and he was kind of a dick besides. He'd helped the rest of those fuckers to kick-start the Apocalypse, and he'd lied to Dean's face, and he'd set Sam free from his prison and sent him out there to do what he did. If he died trying to make things right, then that's only fitting. The guy had it coming. It was karma, or something like that.

(Only – he did it for Dean. That's the killer. He turned traitor in the end, betrayed his bosses and his friends and his family and his cause and just _everything_ he believed in. His people. His God, even. For Dean. Because Dean begged him to. Because – he _liked_ Dean. Because he maybe kind of thought of Dean as a friend, or something. Because he wasn't just a hammer. Poor dumb bastard.)

Dean makes it to the bathroom just in time to puke into the can, rather than redecorating the rug.

* * * 

Jimmy doesn't stir while Dean cleans the shallow knife wound or sews it up. He doesn't flinch when Sam uses the tweezers to pull sliver after sliver of glass out of his skin. He doesn't stir when they pull off his pants and patch up the nasty and mysterious burn mark on his thigh, or when they tuck him up under the musty comforter in the big double bed. It's getting dark by this point, and Sam's quietly gathered up candles and matches, and now the room is a mass of shadows and flickering little points of light.

“You should get some rest,” says Sam, looking from Castiel to Dean and then looking away again a little too fast. He's still positively hemorrhaging guilt and shame, still got that kicked-puppy look that just wrecks Dean, so Dean very nearly agrees. He knows that Sam is burning for a way to start to make up for what he's done, and this would be a place to start, perhaps – but Sammy needs his sleep, and Dean isn't going to let him punish himself, and shoulder all the blame for this massive fuckup. Sure, he guessed wrong and he broke the last seal – but he had the forces of Heaven and Hell working on making it happen, and he's just one guy. It's not his fault.

“I'm fine,” he says, gently, and squeezes Sam's arm. “I just – I need to do this, okay? But you should catch some zees. There's a load of blankets in the other room – kinda moth-eaten, but they should be okay.” Sam just looks at him miserably, and Dean tries to make it clear that this isn't a rejection. “It's – he's kind of my responsibility, you know?” he says, awkwardly. “He's not your problem, Sam. I've got it. We're good.”

Sam looks at him for a long moment, his Adam's apple bobbing, and then his shoulders slump. “'Kay,” he says, turning away – and Dean fumbles for something else to say, something to make this better.

“But you're totally making breakfast, dude,” he says. “And I want proper coffee – none of that instant crap. The world may be ending, but I'm not dropping my standards any.”

“Standards?” says Sam, snorting.

“Damn straight I have standards! And I'm expecting a stack of pancakes with maple syrup and a big mountain of crispy crunchy bacon on the side. Like, half a pig.”

Sam glances back at him, with something almost like a smile. “In your dreams,” he says, and it's a little half-hearted, but it's a start.

“Do not get uppity with me, bitch,” says Dean, hopefully.

“Jerk,” Sam says softly, and his smile is almost real then. It makes Dean's heart expand a little, just seeing that expression, even if it's still only a ghost of the old Sammy.

“G'night, John Boy,” Dean says, as Sam pads out the door with his candle flickering in his hand.

“G'night, Dean,” Sam says, so quietly that Dean almost doesn't hear him.

...it's odd, really. When Dean found out that it was him that broke the first seal, he felt like someone had dropped a flagstone onto his chest. He recognised the truth of it as soon as Alastair spoke the words, and the horror of it was crippling: he thought he would suffocate under the guilt, under the sense of his own failure. But now that Sam's wearing that very same expression of shock, now that Sam's looking a hundred years old and struggling to deal with what_ he's_ done – well, it's _obvious_ to Dean that this isn't Sam's fault. This is the fault of the demons and angels who pushed and pulled and manipulated them all to this point. What chance does one well-meaning human hunter stand against the machinations of Heaven and Hell? No chance at all, of course. This mess isn't Sammy's fault, and he's not letting the kid take all the blame. (Although, yeah, if he's learned that he ought to listen to Dean sometimes, then that's good, damn it.)

He pulls a chair up to Castiel's bedside – Jimmy's bedside – and just sits.

And waits.

And waits.

It's impossible not to remember waking up in that hospital bed bruised and bloody, with the weight of the world on his shoulders and shame scalding him like a physical pain. And Castiel, in Jimmy's body, hunched and unsmiling, watching over him. Making him feel like somebody gave a damn.

He isn't sure that he's ever going to forgive Castiel, even if the bastard's dead.

Ruby was playing Sam all along, and that stings, sure, but – demon. But now he knows that Castiel was playing _him_, was lying to him, manipulating him, and, wow, he's kind of shocked by how much that hurts. How stupid it makes him feel for being such a sucker. Dean's not going to be in a hurry to trust any supernatural son-of-a-bitch ever again. Or anyone, really. Except Sam.

Maybe including Sam.

Damn it – he'd kind of felt like they were friends, him and the fucking Vulcan in his scruffy Columbo coat. Kind of friends, anyway. Somebody he could talk to, somebody who knew everything about him and about his life. Somebody he didn't need to lie to, or to put up a front for. Somebody who understood that life was really, truly shitty, and who knew all the bad decisions he'd made – but who thought he was worth something anyway. Someone who thought he was special. Someone who listened, at least sometimes, and thought really hard about what Dean said and did. Dean hadn't even realised how much he wanted a friend of his own until he realised that Castiel had just been playing him all along, the heartless, soulless son-of-a-bitch.

Dean watches Jimmy Novak's unconscious face, and doesn't realise that he's crying until he tastes salt. he scrubs at his eyes furiously, and reminds himself that Castiel _wasn't_ his friend. Had never been his friend. It was all bullshit, damn it. It was all just lies.

* * * 

“Dean?” It's barely a whisper, just a hoarse, familiar syllable, but it pulls Dean straight out of a dream of sunshine and sandy beaches and seagulls wheeling white above the waves, and abruptly he's back in the bedroom, wearing clothes that could really do with washing, and blinking over at a pair of dazed blue eyes.

“Jimmy?” he says, feeling oddly resentful. He shouldn't be pissed at the guy for being himself. He picks up the glass of water from the bedside table and offers it to the invalid. “How you doing?”

“Dean?” Jimmy blinks. His eyes don't seem to be focusing properly – he's kind of staring at Dean's shoulder, rather than at his face. His voice is barely audible. “I held them off for as long as I could.”

Dean nearly drops the water. He sets it down and leans in closer, staring. “Cas? Shit, Castiel? You in there, buddy?”

“I am – sorry.” And then the eyelids droop down again, and he's out for the count.

“Shit,” mutters Dean. He reaches out a hand to shake Jimmy (Castiel?) awake, and then freezes. The guy's a mess – is Dean really going to start manhandling him, just to satisfy his curiosity? But – ah, crap. He scowls down at the familiar profile, taking in the bruise spreading over one cheekbone, the bloody lines where his lips have been split open, the bandage that covers some kind of unidentifiable bite mark on his collarbone. This isn't just a shell of flesh and bone wrapped around a glowy angel filling – this is a real, human-type guy. This is Jimmy Novak. Or what's left of Jimmy Novak, now that Castiel's gotten his ass kicked by Roma Downey's ugly sisters and has officially left the building.

Isn't it?

He stands up, hands clenching into fists at his sides, wanting to do something, say something, but it's just him in this shadowy house, and two damaged, exhausted men who really do need their sleep, and so he just lets himself pace around quietly for a while, turning things over and over in his head and wondering.

* * * 

Dean doesn't mean to fall asleep again. He's planning on sitting right there in the damn chair, ready to be all Nurse Betty – and ready to quiz the hell out of Jimmy (Castiel?) when he finally wakes up. But it's been one hell of a week, and it shouldn't be surprising, really, that he flakes out.

It isn't a beach, this time. It's a diner. Outside the sky is Crayola-blue. Inside there are red and white gingham tablecloths, and cute waitresses, and Dean is looking down at a great big slice of peach pie topped with a huge blob of whipped cream.

“Dean, I am truly sorry that I needed to deceive you.”

Dean's head snaps up, and there's Castiel, sitting on the opposite side of the booth. It takes Dean a minute or two to remember what the angel's talking about; a minute or two before the sense of pleasure suddenly sours.

“You lied to me,” he says, laying down his spoon and crossing his arms in front of his chest. He still can't believe what an idiot he'd been.

“They said that it was needful and I thought that this was true.” Castiel cocks his head a little, and narrows his eyes – Jimmy Novak's eyes, or something like them – and Dean wants to punch him all over again.

“Newsflash: Apocalypse? Bad. Honesty? Good.” Dean shakes his head. “How the hell can you get such basic stuff mixed up?”

“I see that I was wrong,” Castiel says. And he's not exactly getting all choked up like some Oprah guest, but still – he looks kind of upset, Dean thinks. By Castiel standards. But Dean still kind of thinks that he damn well should be upset, what with the whole trying-to-cause-the-Apocalypse thing, and he's not exactly ready to just hug it out. Castiel looks down at his hands, and then glances up at Dean through his eyelashes, and then looks down again. And that – that's actually kind of pathetic. But, still – Apocalypse. “I thought that you would be at peace,” says Castiel, very softly, apparently to the tablecloth. “I wanted that for you.”

“At peace – meaning _dead_? Fuck that noise, Cas!” Dean glares at him, and Castiel looks up, almost against his will, as if the sheer force of Dean's glare is pulling his eyes up from the red and white check. He looks, Dean realises, absolutely miserable. “Still – you came through in the end,” he adds, belatedly. Because it's true. Because that _was_ something. That deserves to be remembered. “Thanks.”

Castiel just looks at him for a very long moment, and Dean has no idea what to make of that look. It's full of – something. Brimming with something. But Dean hasn't a clue quite what.

He is suddenly struck by a very uncomfortable thought. “Hey, are you – did you – are you dead?”

Castiel blinks. “I was extremely close to death till Michael intervened.”

“Michael?”

“I do not know what prompted him to act on my behalf, but by the time he interfered it was almost too late.”

“So – not dead?”

“I have sustained great injuries but given time I'll heal.” He is looking out of the window, out at the cloudless sky. “They did not take my grace.”

“Oh.” Dean thinks about that. “Well, that's – that's good. Cool.” He thinks some more, and then scowls. “What's with you, though? You were going to tell me about Lilith. You _were_, right? Before they dragged you off to Angel Rehab? What the hell did they _do _ to you, man? What happened to turn you into such a fucking Stepford Wife?”

Castiel actually flinches. It's a very small movement, but Dean doesn't miss it. “You do not want to know,” Castiel says, firmly. He won't meet Dean's eyes. And that – that's bullshit.

“Yeah, I do,” says Dean, leaning forward. “I really kinda do. How bad could it be? It was _Heaven_, for fuck's sakes. And you were gone, what, a few days? They take away your harp? Make you listen to Celine Dion, or something?”

Castiel's expression is pained, but Dean spent thirty years getting tortured in Hell, and he walked back into a room with Alastair in it, literally faced his own worst demons and then some, all for Castiel. For Castiel, who was fucking lying to him all along. So Dean figures that he's entitled to ask any damn questions he wants, at this point.

“Heaven is not corporeal, nor is it bound by time,” says Castiel at last. “You know that we can move through years as simply as through miles.” And that – isn't an answer, exactly, but it opens up a lot of possibilities. Unpleasant possibilities.

“How – how long _were_ you gone?” asks Dean, suddenly feeling a little less certain.

Castiel looks up from the tablecloth, and his eyes are gleaming brighter than usual. But that's probably just a trick of the light, right? “They took as long as they needed to take,” he says carefully. “And they were very thorough.”

Dean doesn't miss the tiny hitch in his voice. Shit. “Seriously, man. What the fuck?”

Castiel shrugs. “They made me see that life on earth is suffering and pain,” he says. “They made me understand why paradise would be a gift.”

Dean's watching him now, watching the way his mouth tightens, watching the tension in his shoulders. “You're not talking about some documentary about life in the Third World here, are you?” he says slowly.

Castiel looks up at him, and his mouth curls very slightly into something almost like a smile. “There was no documentary,” he acknowledges. “They made me truly see. Just as I have experienced sensation through this form.” He glances down at the semblance of Jimmy Novak's body. “But I could not control any of what befell my hosts. It was not true possession – I was at one remove.”

Dean tries to wrap his head around that. “Shit,” he says, inadequately. “They – what, they made you experience other people's – what, torture?” His tongue stumbles a little on the word, thick with guilt.

Castiel nods, once, a quick, crisp gesture. “There is no form of suffering that they denied to me – nothing that can be done to any man, woman or child, in warfare or at home, by strangers or by friends. No kind of violation they allowed me to avoid.” His voice is very calm, as though he's describing something that happened to someone else, maybe in a book, but his hands are trembling. Dean catches his breath, and tries not to think about Hell. Castiel isn't looking at him, though. He's staring at the tablecloth, as though he can read some kind of secrets in the weave of the cotton. “I had not understood before how brutal your lives are,” he says, softly. “I saw only the beauty and the brightness of this world. But now I see it all.” When he looks up at Dean, it takes a very long moment for Dean to recognise his expression. It's something very like pity. But softer. More tender. Something that scares Dean as much as it warms him.

“Oh,” he says, awkwardly. “That – well, yeah, okay, that sucks.”

And Castiel does smile at that, a tiny, quickly repressed flicker of a smile, but by Castiel standards that's practically a belly laugh. “It was not very pleasant,” he agrees. “But it was educational.”

“But – it was bullshit. You get that, right? They only showed you that stuff to fuck with your head.”

Castiel looks at him, and Dean feels an almost physical shock at the intensity of the eye contact. “They made me see the truth,” he says simply. “I had been quite naïve.”

“But – Apocalypse bad,” says Dean, helplessly. “However shitty life may be, Apocalypse? Still bad.”

Castiel just looks at him. “Serenity and peace and love,” he says, at last. “An end to suffering. It is a noble cause.”

“But...” Dean waves his hands in the air. “But you turned your back on the dark side of the Force! You stood up to them! You saw that they were wrong!”

“I saw that _you _were quite sincere in choosing life on Earth,” says Castiel, at last, very gently. “I do not understand why you would choose this over peace, but if you want mortality with all its dirt and pain, then I must honour that.”

Dean knows that he's staring, but he can't help it. He feels weirdly exposed. “So – you're saying this was for me?”

Castiel wets his lips, but doesn't say anything for a long moment. “I do not know whether my choice was pleasing to the Lord,” he says at last, and he sounds almost rueful. “But I would have you happy, Dean, whatever form that takes.”

“Oh.” He has absolutely no idea what to say to that. No idea at all.

And that's when he understands what's brimming in Castiel's eyes – astonishing and improbable as it is. That's when the penny finally drops.

“Is this – do you – Cas, is this...?” But he doesn't know how to ask this. How do you ask this, and not sound ridiculous?

“You have been singled out by God,” says Castiel, and there's no mistaking the fondness in his voice. “You are exceptional.”

He's on the brink of denying this, but then – and he doesn't see this coming, but that's dreams for you – suddenly Castiel is pressing a kiss onto his forehead, something warm and chaste and intimate, and utterly unexpected. It reminds him, startlingly, of his mother. And then, very much _not_ of his mother.

“Cas?” The angel's eyes are fixed on his with an intensity that takes his breath away. “Castiel?”

“Thank you,” Castiel says, unexpectedly. “You gave me time to heal myself, and tended to my vessel.” His voice is a little strained. “I have imposed on you too long.”

“No, that's - no, Cas, it's fine,” says Dean, stumbling over his words, aware only of the fact that there's something here that he wants, wants quite desperately, and he can feel it slipping through his fingers. “Cas – don't – whatever it is you're thinking, don't do it.”

“I would not lead the Host to you. It is past time I left.”

“No!” But Castiel just gives him another small, tight smile, and Dean knows that the bastard is going to vanish in a puff of smoke, and leave him with a head full of questions and a heart full of half-formed desires. “Don't you dare run out on me now!”

And then he's gone.

* * * 

When Dean wakes up, he's supremely unsurprised to find that Jimmy – Castiel – has vanished from the bed, and left nothing but a few speckles of blood as bright as roses dotted on the sheets, and, on the pillow, a single translucent feather, like something formed from smoke and shadow and obsidian, half-visible in the flickering candlelight. Dean reaches out, very carefully, and lifts it up between his finger and thumb. It is almost insubstantial, but it sends prickles of sensation like little shocks of electricity sparking through his skin. When he brushes the feather tentatively over the back of his hand, it sends a helpless shudder running through him.

"Damn it, Cas," he says into the empty room. "We're not done here."


End file.
